Journeyman
by HarrimanStandard
Summary: Oneshot / Stream of consciousness. Drew reflects on his career as a coordinator and his next steps while travelling to his final grand festival. Inspired by Iron Maiden's song of the same name and a sunset train trip. Implied Contestshipping.


A/N: I've gotten some complaints from people about how verbose this story is and...that's a fair point. I'm experimenting with a style that is universally loathed by anyone who has taken a lit class. If anything this was more an experiment to push the limits of what a phone could do, and to push my own limits.

Anyways, read on if you're interested. If not, no need to worry, this is likely a wordy one-off.

The jagged leeward hills slowly rolled by in the distance, an angular antithesis to the lavender and fuchsia clouds hanging high above. Between him and the hog-backs were two panes of plate glass and a few miles of sand, cactus, and weathered crags and boulders. He marveled at how he didn't try to cross it on bike, like many years ago.

He leaned closer to the window, taking in the details of the range. As harsh as they were, erosion had taken hold, carving gullies in the flat planes and smoothing the crests and corners. Was it really that long? Had he, too, weathered in the years he had been touring? He would have liked to think it was maturity that ground down his edge.

Maturity. Something which had dampened the fiery hubris of his past while leaving the legacy it made intact. Sarcasm and roses were an odd combination, after all, and that was to say nothing of the intentions they signaled.

Yet here he sat, watching the mountains roll by and the shadow flicker across the sands. The seat swayed under him, rocking gently with the occasional squeak of metal on metal or the brassy, muffled blare of the horn. Beyond this it was a low rumble from underfoot and ahead.

Here he was, on the road to what might be the last Grand Festival of his career. Three wins in his home region for his age was nothing to scoff at. But the pressure, the stresses, the publicity...he did not need that in his life. At the end of the day, he wanted his passion to drive who he was, not a facade of aloof cynicism and snark.

He carried a case in his coat pocket, one which matched his indigo undershirt more than the garish mauve pocket it rested in. Opening it wide he took stock of the five glistening medallions of different designs, and the five shimmering ribbons to which they were affixed sparkling.

A crimson ribbon caught his eye, rekindling memories of an old colleague. Everything about her was contrast, feminine grace and tomboyish tact. A soothing touch to a fiery passion. And though the years had tempered her wiser and had made her more fond in his heart, the politics of his craft kept her the same rival she was when they met on the beach many years ago.

He knew he would see her there.

It was an odd conflict, of self interest versus altruism. His own merits and desires implied the cup was all his, an easy win to clinch. But in his heart of hearts he could feel she deserved it more, journey after journey of self discovery and a struggle to breaking into her own coming into this watershed event. This was her festival to win. And in an ethical sense his mind concurred, wanting this to be a changing of the guard.

Or, he mused to himself, the vanguard.

Maybe he could gracefully slip out of the public eye, but keep his penchant for the stage. He could still remain in coordinating, working as more of a consultant on her craft. And above all he could be with her without the shroud of speculation and gossip about him. Maybe he could show his feelingswin some way other than sarcastically handing her a rose. Maybe he could make the roses mean something.

The compartment was empty. He turned to the window, catching his reflection in the glass, and mused to himself "this rose is actually for you, May. They were for you all along. Both you and Beautifly have grown so mu-"

A burst of wind and volcanic roar shook the glass in its gaskets. A multicolored wall of steel whipped past.

In spite of the passing train's interruption, he had it. Those words that eluded him, he had them. Win or lose, he had closure on their rivalry. Closure with sincerity.

He knew what he wanted, to end the confrontational dialogue. To make amends and acknowledge she helped him grow. To break the walls and see what bonds they could build.

He would say what he wanted, breaching the pact of rivalry. So what if there was gossip about him saying encouragement to his "foe"? So what if some tabloid wanted to turn his infatuation into a sensationalist yarn? It was the truth, after all. Even she had an inkling of the latter and even reciprocated it.

And no-one, not even his own hesitance, could take it away.


End file.
